Behind The Door
by Evenlodes Friend
Summary: Sequel to my story, A Romantic Education.  Sherlock and John consummate their relationship in the Presidential Suite of the Randolph Hotel, Oxford - but things never go smoothly with Sherlock around.  This is GSEX, pure and simple.  Happy Valentine's Day!
1. Chapter 1

**Behind the Door Part 1**

_Dedicated to Mirith Griffin, Giraffes Sent Me, and BookWoman17NerdyMom with Evenlode's love._

Ladies and Gentlemen, fellow Sherlockians, Cumberbitches and FreemanBabes, I now present you (finally) with the much talked about, long awaited sequel to my story '**A Romantic Education'**, a glorious SLASH-fest of our boys going at it like rabbits, as a little gift for Valentines Day. (Comes in two parts.)

**Warning:** Does what it says on the tin.

**NB** for any old time Sherlockians out there – spot the Basil Rathbone quote….

Enjoy!

(Previously: Realising his feelings for John Watson are more than just friendship, Sherlock Holmes has set out to romance his flatmate with candle lit dinners, dancing to Frank Sinatra, punting on the Thames in Oxford, and the wicked consumption of a certain ice cream. After an afternoon of passionate kissing, they finally decide to consummate their relationship in the Presidential Suite of the Randolph Hotel in Beaumont Street, Oxford. You may remember that a passing member of staff overhears their passion…)

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><p>The door clicks shut and they stare at one another. John is standing by the bed, nervous in spite of the kisses. Those kisses. As Sherlock comes towards him, the sensation of them goes through his mind again. The plush softness of Sherlock's lips, the roughness of his tongue. It makes John start trembling all over again.<p>

Thunder rumbles around the building as Sherlock's fingertips brush his cheek.

'I promise I won't hurt you,' he whispers.

John nods.

'We won't do anything you don't want to do.'

The trouble is that when Sherlock looks at him like that, when he breathes in his ear like that, when he comes close enough for John to sense the heat emanating from his skin, John wants to do _everything_. He can't think of anything he won't let Sherlock do to him, right now, scruples and hygiene and heterosexuality be damned, and he is sure as hell determined he's going to do every bloody thing back, because he has never wanted anyone this much in his entire life. Ever.

As Sherlock's arms encircle him, as his breath strokes over John's skin, the doctor whispers back.

'Have you ever felt this way before? Have you ever-' He wants to say more but he is shaking too hard, and delicate fingertips are stroking his neck.

'Never wanted anybody so much it actually hurts. A pain, John, a pain right through my whole body.' Sherlock kisses the fine skin of John's neck very slowly, and then breathes in his ear. 'This is it for me, my love. You're the one.'

It takes everything John has to stop his knees from giving way right there and then.

'I want to touch you, John. I want to touch your skin. I want to touch you _all over_.' This from a man who hates it when people repeat themselves. 'May I touch you, John?'

'Yes,' the doctor gasps, and Sherlock locks his lips onto his earlobe and sucks, and John moans and clings to the skinny man's shoulders as if he is drowning. And after a moment, Sherlock lets the soft little bubble of flesh pop out of his mouth and blows gently on the skin till John quivers.

Clever fingers (for what else could they be?) work at the buttons of John's linen shirt, slipping them from their holes, sliding over the clammy skin underneath.

'Can I look at you, John? Please?'

John knows why he has paused, when another lover would have stripped the shirt off without a second thought. And that makes him shake more than Sherlock's touch. Because he knows now that this man really does love him. Sherlock is never considerate and thoughtful to anyone, but right now he is being tender and kind to a man he knows has all sorts of hang-ups about his body and a selection of extremely good reasons for all of them.

Scars.

John swallows, loud and awkward.

Sherlock lifts his head and looks him right in the eye. 'We can do this clothed, if you'd prefer. But I'd much rather not.'

'No, no, it's okay.'

'It's not okay, John,' Sherlock tells him. 'I can see it's not. I'm asking if you will let me in. And I can promise I won't hurt you. I swear.'

He swears, John thinks. He's serious. So John does what all Englishmen do, and what all soldiers do, in the face of something so serious. He makes light of it.

'What's this? Your new "What would Mr Darcy do?" campaign?'

'Please?'

He looks up into those silver eyes, while the tail of the storm whips over the city around them, while a long sinuous hand rests on his belly, waiting. And then, he pulls his shirt off himself.

Sherlock looks.

And then he stops looking and goes back to kissing and stroking John's body, without so much as a second glance, and that, the little doctor knows, is something he will never forget and will be forever grateful for. He lets himself soften against Sherlock's lean form for a few moments, and then pulls back to tug at the taller man's buttons.

'Both of us,' he says. 'I'm not being naked alone.'

'You're hardly naked,' Sherlock points out, with a glint in his eye. 'Yet.'

Which makes John fumble a button, his fingers instantly turning to rubber.

Sherlock stands back, and begins to unbutton himself, and John isn't sure if that is consideration or the desire to show off because now he is doing the least subtle strip-tease John has ever seen and John never knew he could move like _that_.

'Where did you learn to do that?' he gasps.

Sherlock whips his shirt over his shoulders and tugs it into a kind of shawl, turning just enough to glance naughtily at John with a raised eyebrow. 'Pole dancing class,' he said.

'What?'

'It was for a case.'

'Yeah, sure it was!'

Sherlock shimmies a little, flips the shirt over his head, and loops it around John's neck, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.

'What do you think?'

'Right now?' John is frankly getting rather breathless. 'I'm thinking: you in a black satin basque and stockings and suspenders and five inch heels and a feather boa, and I'm thinking I'm going to have a heart attack.'

'Not yet, my love. Not till I'm ready to give you one.'

John whimpers.

'Besides, I never had you down for the dressing up type.'

'Oh, love, the army is the best dressing up there is. You have no idea'

'Mmmm, maybe not, but I'm getting one. And it's thoroughly unwholesome and naughty.'

'Definitely having a cardiac episode now.'

'Wait for me, darling,' Sherlock cooes, and claims John's mouth, running his hands down his skin and then, while the shirt tumbles to the carpet, dips his head and latches onto John's nipple with his voluptuous lips, and pinches the other between his fingertips, so that John yelps.

The suction and the pressure and the teeth are mind-bending, and John's heart is racing as if it's close to bursting. And as Sherlock's fingertips wander lower, it occurs to him that he is hard, so hard that his trousers and pants are barely containing his erection. He glances down and is shocked to see the head of his cock peeping above his waistband, and he is praying Sherlock hasn't noticed just at the same moment that it becomes abundantly clear that Sherlock certainly has noticed and intends to make exceedingly good use of the knowledge.

'Aha!' he says, 'What's this?'

John growls as Sherlock sinks to his knees and assaults his belt. The zip comes down and Sherlock presses kisses across John's belly as he eases the waistband over his hips. John is panting now, cricking his neck to stare down at what is happening below his navel. The detective is stroking his skin, licking his hipbones, nuzzling hungrily at the base of his belly where the hair begins to spread out. Long hands circle around to the small of his back and stroke down over his buttocks, sweeping his trousers before them, until the fabric sags and drops around his ankles. Sherlock slips his hands up the legs of John's shorts and massages the gluteal muscles, and John groans, bucking helplessly.

'So good,' Sherlock mumbles. 'You feel so good.' He is rubbing his cheeks and lips over the ridge of John's hard on, making it bob beneath the thin jersey.

'Please Sherlock,' John begs.

He is not sure if he really hears the crump outside of the door of the suite, but by then it's too late and his capacity to focus on anything that isn't his cock is reduced to zero, because Sherlock has slipped his pants down and taken the dripping head of his erection in his marvellous mouth.

'Oh, God, yes, Sherlock, _yes_…'

It's hot, and it's wet, and it's oh so incredible. There are those plush, lush lips and that insatiable tongue, and teeth, yes, just the slightest suggestion of teeth, so tantalising, and then there is the divine sucking and the movement, in and out, and if it goes on for much longer, John really isn't going to last because this is frankly just about blowing every neuron he has. He grabs onto Sherlock's bony shoulders and sinks his nails in, trying to hold him back, trying to get him to just give John a break here, because this is just too much, and then Sherlock looks up at him, and his eyes twinkle, and he pulls off with a slurp.

'Jesus Christ, Sherlock,' John groans.

'Darling, I haven't even started yet,' the detective promises.

'Take it easy, for God's sake, or I'll come before we've even got on the bed,' John tells him. So Sherlock leans forward, sticks his tongue out and tickles the tip of John's cock with it.

'You taste so good,' Sherlock breathes. 'I can't help it.'

'Well, try.'

Sherlock hums and examines the hard-on that is an inch and a half from his face.

'Beautiful,' he whispers. 'I want it.'

And without any warning he takes it in his mouth again, and this time shows no mercy. Down it goes, the whole length, and John's jaw falls open as he realises that Sherlock can actually deep throat and is doing it to him, _right now_. And then Sherlock swallows, and his soft palate is massaging the head of John's cock, and John lets out a little wail of disbelief.

And doesn't come.

Much to his own surprise.

'Oh baby,' Sherlock moans, letting John's cock slip out of his mouth, and then slurping it in again, and then John is fucking him, fucking his mouth, helpless, jerking his hips and needing that luscious throat so much, and then suddenly, just when he thinks he is going to lose it, really lose it this time, Sherlock pulls off again and scrambles to his feet and falls on his mouth like a plague of locusts.

Every nerve ending in John's body is on fire.

And then a delicious certainty comes to him. He pushes Sherlock back, away from him, and the sinuous body flops onto the bed. John stands over him and grins his best evil grin.

'My turn now,' he says. 'Baby.'

He makes short work of Sherlock's belt and fastening, and rips the trousers over his narrow hips, made brazen by the desire coursing through his veins. Kicking off shoes and socks, he crawls over the panting detective, whose eyes are wide with need.

'You want some?'

'God, yes,' Sherlock moans.

John has never personally sucked a cock before, but he has been on the receiving end of an impressive number of blow jobs and he reckons he knows roughly what he's doing. Besides, he's a doctor and he's handled his fair share of cocks in a professional capacity at least, so he has a good idea of what not to do. Now he's faced with Sherlock's member, things seem oddly awkward and, at the same time, painfully simple. He won't be able to replicate Sherlock's impressive technique, but he reckons that doesn't matter because right now the detective is straining and moaning underneath him as he takes his shaft firmly in his hand. It is narrow and hard and long, and gleaming at the head where anticipation has rimed it. It's been a long, hot day, and Sherlock should stink of sweat, especially in his crotch, but he smells sweetly instead, of oranges.

John drops his head and gulps him in. And Sherlock's moan must be wired straight to John's groin because the sounds goes right through him and makes his knob twitch almost painfully.

John licks and sucks gently, swirls his tongue around, and flicks it tentatively at the end, and Sherlock's back arches in appreciation.

'So good,' he croons.

John's getting into the swing of this now. The skin is salty and firm, and there is a satisfying resistance to it. The length is weighty too, and he senses the amount of blood that is pooled there, throbbing. He starts bobbing his head up and down, letting it slide in between his lips, almost allowing it release, and then sucking it back again. Sherlock struggles up onto his elbows so that he can watch John crouching over him, using his mouth.

'Yesssss,' he hisses, rolling his head. John doesn't need to stop to ask if it's good. He can see from the flush spreading over his lover's chest and cheeks.

'Mmmmm,' he drones, mouth happily full, knowing all the while that although he's enjoying this, it's giving his own cock time to ease. And actually, it's delicious and satisfying, and he really loves the sense of power it gives him, right up until the moment when Sherlock cries out, a strangled, desperate cry, grasps his shoulders and pulls him up his body to sink his tongue into John's mouth and taste his own precome on his lips. They are both panting and slithering together, naked and hard, as they roll across the bed, mouths locked, hands grasping. John finds Sherlock's long neck and sinks his teeth in, and Sherlock lets out a little wail. The detective grabs the back of his head, knotting his fingers in John's sandy hair, and drags his skull back so that he can make a matching mark. John writhes, finds himself on his back and held down. Sherlock lifts his head and fixes him with his silver stare.

'I want you, John,' he pants. 'I want to be inside you. Will you let me? Will you let me have you?'

His words are practically on fire.

'Do I get a choice?'

'Always a choice, my love. But I want you to know that I want you. How much I want you. You're burning me alive.'

John knows the risks. He's a doctor. He knows what's involved. What's more, he's done trauma work for years, trained in Barts A&E department. He's no stranger to casualties with anal or colon ruptures, or with any manner of weird objects jammed in their rectums. He has no illusions about the vast range of sexual peccadillos of the human race. And so at any other moment in his life he would have argued strenuously, probably with his fists, against having anything stuck up his arse. But when he glances down at that beautiful cock, attached as it is to the most beautiful human being he has ever laid eyes on, all that goes out the window.

'Yes,' he says.

And why? Because, quite apart from the fact that he is insanely in love with this man, this afternoon's events have already proved that Sherlock knows _exactly_ what he is doing. And if Sherlock does something, he does it perfectly. There are no half measures. So John knows beyond doubt that he is in absolutely the best hands for his first foray into anal penetration.

Sherlock swiftly kneels up, his eyes tender.

'Are you okay with this? Really?'

'Yes.'

'I won't hurt you.'

'I know.'

'We can stop whenever you want.'

'You said.'

'I love you.'

And that's what breaks him. Those three words, such simple words, so often abused, coming out of the mouth of the one man on the planet who was never supposed to say them, and certainly not to a short, stocky, rather ordinary little former battlefield surgeon. Right there, John Hamish Watson's heart breaks soundly into pieces, and then Sherlock reaches out and with the lightest touch of his lips, puts them perfectly back together again.

'Fuck me, Sherlock,' he whispers as Sherlock releases his mouth.

So then he is crouching on shins and forearms, and Sherlock is stroking his back with tender strokes, pressing kisses to the nape of his neck and the nubs of his spine, licking his shoulder blades and the small of his back, and murmuring all the while:

'So beautiful, so beautiful…'

Licking and kissing and licking, further and further down, and then. Strong hands press John's buttocks part and that short nose nuzzles between them, finding, finding.

John feels a twinge of consternation at this moment. After all, he's been up since 8am, on his feet and travelling through a long hot day. And his body is fully functioning, no problems there. So when he realises that the hot, wet sensation he is feeling is actually Sherlock's tongue, licking his hole, tracing little circles around his anus so that he can blow on them a tiny, cooling draft of tingling pleasure, he can't pretend he doesn't have qualms. Sherlock, it seems, doesn't. However salty, sweaty, or anything else he might be up there, Sherlock isn't worried about any of it. He is sticking his scalding, squirming tongue in, and John is moaning because God, that's so good, fuck me, that's incredible, and Sherlock is thrusting and opening and licking and all concerns evaporate immediately and completely.

And this seems to go on for-blissful-ever until long fingers reach between and then Sherlock is holding his cock and stroking it, and sucking on his balls, sucking them into his mouth, and then working his way back up, up, and John never knew his perineum could tingle like that, and his legs are shaking, and he realises with utter certainty that if Sherlock doesn't fuck him in the arse _right now_, he literally going to collapse and die.

So it's a sudden and serious blow when Sherlock gets up and leaves the room.

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><p>Many thanks to everyone who commented on A Romantic Education. I hope you will be back for the next part tomorrow...<p> 


	2. Chapter 2

Behind the Door Part 2

**A/N:** Thank you to everyone who entered the Basil Rathbone Quote competition! I loved the idea of Rathbone doing a pole dancing class, but the image of him saying "I want you, John. I want to be inside you" to Nigel Bruce had me rolling on the floor in hysterics. Kudos to Mirith for that one. (I have to admit that I first fell in love with Sherlock Holmes by way of Basil Rathbone when I was seven years old, so he's probably responsible for all this smut!) Keep your entries coming, I can't wait to hear your ideas. And today's keen-eyed readers will be able to detect a reference to the lyrics of the band James. (which probably dates me horribly).

Anyway, without more ado, the culmination awaits…. (Oh, and please review, I need to know if I'm doing this right.)

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><p><em>So it's a sudden and serious blow when Sherlock gets up and leaves the room...<em>

He crouches there for a minute, uncertain as to what to do. Then he calls out Sherlock's name, tentatively, but there is no answer. He kneels up. Realises his heart is racing, and it is not because he is turned on.

His feet are unsteady, but he manages to scramble up and lurch to the door. The main room of the suite, the lounge, is on the other side. It is full of the weird mauve light of the storm. The window has been closed, but the nets are soaked, dripping on the carpet. There is a box of electronic equipment on the table and beside it, a Tesco carrier bag that has clearly been rifled through.

'Sherlock?'

Nothing.

John edges forward. The chill of the rain clings to his skin, and suddenly he realises he is cold and very, very naked, his heart as well as his body.

He's left me. He's fucking gone off and left me.

John's eyes start to prick. He can't believe it. He hangs onto the doorframe and tries hard to breathe, but finds he can't. Outside thunder rumbles, distant now, the squall playing out. His teeth start to chatter.

Bastard. Complete bastard. He's-

Which is when Sherlock reappears, gracefully, from another door, still stark naked and rapturously beautiful, and with a condom on his magnificent cock and a bottle of lube in his hand. He takes one look at John and blurts out-

'Jesus, what happened to you?'

John wipes a shaking palm down his face. 'Where'd you go? You fucking waltzed off and left me on my hands and knees with my arse in the wind, you shit!'

Sherlock gestures at his genitals.

'Condom,' he says. 'Plus I had to wash my mouth out. I didn't think you'd appreciate me kissing you after I'd rimmed you when you hadn't washed. I know what a stickler for hygiene you are, after all.'

'You were trying to be _thoughtful_?' John is seriously considering punching him.

'Er, yes?'

'God.' John can do nothing but shake his head. 'Look, do me a favour? Next time you're thinking of being thoughtful, could you give me some warning? Only it can come as a bit of a shock.'

Sherlock stares at him. 'You thought I left you?'

'I don't think, I know.'

'No, I mean that you actually thought I'd walked out on you?'

'Well, that's what it looked like to me!'

'What kind of man do you think I _am_, John?' Then his expression of pained offence turns to distress, and then deduction. 'No, this is not about me, it's about you. You thought I was revolted by you. You thought I would walk out on you because I was repelled by your scar?'

John looks at the floor. 'Don't.'

Sherlock reaches out and grips John's upper arms. 'Didn't you hear me say how much I want you?'

'Why are you doing this, Sherlock?' John looks up into his eyes. 'Why is someone like you interested in me?'

'Didn't I explain that earlier?'

'Let's pretend I wasn't there, shall we?'

Sherlock pulls John tenderly against him, folds his arms around him, presses a kiss to his temple.

'Because you are beautiful and brave and good. Because you are the sexiest man I have ever laid eyes on. Because you make the sun come up in the morning. And because I am incomplete without you.'

Then he uses his fingertips to tip John's chin up so that he can look into his eyes. Sometimes, when he looks at him that way, John feels like he can see right into his soul.

'Confidence crisis over?'

'Not quite.'

'Then look at my cock if you are in any more doubt.'

And John has to admit that Sherlock's erection is monumentally undaunted by his emotional wobble.

'Are you insatiable?'

'Pretty much.' Sherlock kisses him deeply. 'At least, I am when it comes to you. Now can we get on with the fucking?'

They stand there in the pewter light, two naked men kissing. John can just glimpse their reflection in the mirror behind the brocade sofa. He can see Sherlock's pearlescent flanks and the dimples just above his buttocks. He can see his own sun-browned hands cupping Sherlock's shoulder blades, the curve of his hip snug against the top of Sherlock's long white thigh. But more than that, he can feel the heat of Sherlock's cock trapped against his belly, and feels suddenly awed that he can have such an effect on such an extraordinary creature.

'Yes,' he breathes into Sherlock's mouth. 'Yes.'

Then the detective starts to kiss him again in earnest. His tongue slides between John's lips and he tastes of toothpaste and mouthwash, minty and cool, and John feels just the tiniest bit sad that he can't taste the delicious flavours of earlier on him, the wine, the ice cream, the languid warmth of summer. His skin is so smooth, slipping against John's chest as he presses the doctor back against the wall. John gasps as the chill of the plaster seeps into his backside, but Sherlock slithers down, intent once again on warming up his somewhat deflated erection. John moans as the hot mouth closes over him. His knees are going to give way, he is sure of it, but Sherlock shows no sign of wanting to move, and now, second time around, John's cock is incredibly sensitised, responding to the faintest of caresses. He pushes his head back, feeling the cold wall against his crown, and closes his eyes so he can feel everything, record everything that Sherlock is doing, every touch, every stroke, because he has every intention of replaying these images over and over again to his dying day.

Sherlock wants me. Sherlock needs me. Sherlock's mouth is on me.

Long, capable hands grasp his hips and turn him once again, and he rests his forehead on the doorframe, looks at his feet and waits. He hears the lube pump work, and then a slender finger probes the crease of his backside, stroking.

'Oh!'

Inside, that fingertip is cool against the heat of his body, working gently in and out. John gasps. This shouldn't feel so good, he is sure. A second finger, equally well lubricated, causes him more trouble, and he has to tilt his hips forward to accommodate it.

'Relax, my love,' Sherlock coaxes, kissing the swell of muscle.

John tries hard, concentrating on letting go. Something inside gives, he gasps, and Sherlock's hand slithers in up to the knuckles.

'Oh, God!'

'That's it,' Sherlock pants, 'yes.'

John is aware of his lover standing up, moving close. His cock presses in, insistent. John pushes against the wall with his hands, trying to get a better angle, and Sherlock suddenly breaches him. A spasm of pain sears his rectum and lower spine.

'Christ!'

'Trust me, love, just let it happen.'

'I'm trying.' It comes out as more of a growl. The pain has made his whole body tense and he is screwing every ounce of willpower he has into letting his muscles go. A few more pants, and then it happens. Sherlock slides gently in, and it feels, well, incredible. John cries out, in shock as much as pleasure.

And then they are moving. Undulating.

Sherlock is a good lover. Tender. Patient. He takes time to kiss the back of John's neck and back, allowing him to crane his head round to kiss his lips. He wraps one arm around John's bad shoulder, gripping the top of the good arm to protect it. His free hand slithers over John's chest and stomach, caressing muscles taut with need. Lower, he takes a moment to grasp John's cock and bring it back to life, after the pain caused his newly returned erection to collapse. He murmurs softly into John's ear and sucks his lobe. He moves smoothly, eeking the pleasure out of every stroke.

'Oh, love, oh love,' he moans softly with every push.

John's legs are shaking. He can't believe it. He can't believe that Sherlock is fucking him up against a wall and it feels so bloody good. Fantastic, in fact. No, more than that. Actually, there isn't a word he can think of that adequately describes this feeling of being totally caressed, totally filled, totally loved.

And then Sherlock begins to falter. His breath becomes ragged, and something in his movement tells John his heart is not in this any more.

'Love?' John breathes, hardly daring to question.

Sherlock tugs himself free and holds onto John's body, his cock sticky against John's buttock. He is trembling. The loss of him from inside John's body feels like grief. His absence leaves a wretched gap. John twists in his arms, manages to turn to face him, but Sherlock has buried his head in John's neck and won't look up no matter how much he is coaxed.

'Please, Sherlock, please tell me what's wrong? Tell me what I did?'

'Not you,' the detective whimpers, his words muffled by John skin. 'It's me.'

'Tell me?' Fingers raking through those dark curls, John suddenly feels desperate enough to beg. 'Please?'

Sherlock lets out a sob. John does the only thing he can do. He holds on tight. For a moment, he thinks it's all over, but then Sherlock lifts his head, and he can see tears glazing his face.

'So much,' he murmurs. 'Love you so much.'

John strokes his cheek and kisses away the tears that have gathered like crystal in his long lashes. 'Ssshhhh, love. It's okay.'

'Something I need to tell you.'

'What?'

'I'm not really a natural top.'

John can't help grinning. 'Is that what this is about?'

Sherlock's lower lip wobbles so appealingly that John has to kiss him long and slow. When he's done, he whispers 'It's easily solved, you know. You don't have to do everything.'

Sherlock looks deep into his eyes again, searching, so he shrugs. 'Let's just say I'm not a natural bottom.' The younger man lets out an uncertain laugh, more like a cough.

'All we need is another condom,' John tells him. And then smacks him on the bottom. 'Come on, bed!'

Sherlock fetches the packet of condoms from the bathroom and allows John to lead him by the hand back to the bedroom. They lie down and start kissing all over again.

'I want you on your back,' John tells him. 'I want to see your face when I make love to you. I want to be able to kiss you.'

'Yes,' Sherlock whispers, mesmerised. He stretches out and watches as John applies the sheath, drips lube on and then adds more to his fingers.

'No,' he says.

'What?' John is confused.

'Don't prepare me. I want to feel you go in. I want you to part me.'

John isn't sure about that. 'I don't want to hurt you.'

'You won't. Please, John. I need this.'

John isn't an expert, and since he presumes his lover is, he is willing to let it go this time. So he spreads Sherlock's sumptuous thighs, feels for his hole and lines himself up. And presses down.

Sherlock whimpers.

John stops, but he urges him on, gripping his hips and pulling them against him. John takes him at his word and drives in.

It's incredible. So tight and so hot. And now Sherlock's thighs are wrapped around him, and his beautiful lips part erotically as he closes his eyes to feel, just feel, John.

'Oh, yes.'

Muscles clamp down around John's cock, and then ripple. He can't help moaning.

'Please, John. Do it.'

So he does. He parts Sherlock's flesh, ploughs into it, thrusts and pounds it, and he feels alive. He feels connected. They are together more deeply than they could be any other way. United. And that's when John realises this is what it means, that this is the point of making love. Two people united as one. He's glimpsed it before, once or twice, but never like this. As he bears down on the man who has stolen his heart, sliding into his body, claiming him for his own, he becomes part of Sherlock, and Sherlock becomes part of him. Every nerve ending explodes into a perfect electrical storm, every synapse sings with passion. He can't see anything but Sherlock, Sherlock's mouth, Sherlock's eyes, Sherlock's body, all moving under him, with him, in him.

There is nothing more perfect than this, he realises. This is what I was made for. What I survived Basra and Kandahar for. What thousands of years of my family's genetic evolution have been leading up to. All so I could join with this man on this day and feel _this_.

Simultaneous orgasm is not something that really happens. Well, if it does, its only in stories and porn. But John and Sherlock both tumble into ecstasy together at the precise same moment, their bodies dissolving into a shivering, quaking need, their cocks exploding in a champagne of semen, their hearts cracking and merging into one. The convulsions that rip through John's body as he pounds into his lover's are mirrored in the way Sherlock arches his back, the way his belly clenches, inside and out, the way he digs his nails into John's shoulders as he comes. And the way he cries out the name of the man whose body he has received and enveloped.

'John,' he screams. 'John!'

* * *

><p>Two men lying, sweat slick and come covered, on their backs on a half tester bed, panting.<p>

'Fuck,' says John.

'No thanks, I already had one,' says Sherlock, and they both giggle.

The rain has eased to a gentle patter on the glass. Traffic splashes by on the street below.

'I never got my beer,' John says.

'We should have champagne. There will be champagne in the fridge.'

'Actually,' John says, and leaps up. 'I've got a better idea.' And he slips out into the main living area.

'Not that bloody English sparkling wine again,' Sherlock calls after him.

John comes back with a wicked grin and grabs both of Sherlock's hands, pulling him off the bed.

Tat tata tat tata ta tata tat

A familiar beat comes over hidden speakers.

'This whole place is wired for sound,' John trills with delight, slipping his arm around Sherlock's waist. 'While you were casing the library, I was checking out the playlist. And it just so happens they've got our song-'

Right on cue, Sinatra cuts in

'_Fly me to the moon  
>And let me swing upon the stars<em>

John starts to croon along with him, rocking Sherlock back and forwards till he is helpless with laughter. They sing the next few lines together:

_Let me see what Spring is like  
>On Jupiter and Mars<em>

Sherlock giggles, 'You're mad.'

'Isn't that why you love me?'

'Possibly has something to do with it.' John spins Sherlock round and catches him. 'That, and your huge cock.'

'It's not that huge,' John tells him, and then has second thoughts. 'Is it?'

Sherlock smirks.

_Fill my heart with song,  
>And let me sing forever more.<br>You are all I long for,  
>All I worship and adore.<em>

They whirl around the room, bumping into coffee tables and occasional chairs.

Here we are, John thinks. Two stark naked blokes covered in sweat and come, dancing to Old Blue Eyes in a hotel room on a rainy summer afternoon in Oxford. And the best part is, we are in love. I think that must pretty much be the definition of 'romantic.'

_In other words,  
>Please be true.<br>In other words,  
>I love you.<em>

* * *

><p><strong>Epilogue:<strong>

Two days later, back in Baker Street, while Sherlock is dissecting a human eyeball on the kitchen table, a thought suddenly comes into John's head.

'Hang on, where did the condoms come from?'

'Ah,' says Sherlock.

* * *

><p>I love a happy ending, don't you? Thank you for reading. More stories, and maybe a new departure soon...<p> 


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